Chapter 58 - Fire in the Carriage House
We stepped through the gate onto an iron catwalk suspended over a dark, churning surge of water. We were inside the old sea cave beneath the Oakton bluffs, where the Atlantic tide pushed into the drainage culverts of the old cannery.
Above us, the dull rumble of explosions shook the rock ceiling.
"They're burning the estate," Julian said, looking back through the grate. Smoke was beginning to curl through the upper vents of the tunnel behind us. "They know we slipped through. They're torching the evidence."
Through the grate, I could see the orange glow reflecting against the clouds out over the water. The old carriage house, the main house, the archives—generations of Vance history going up in kerosene and flame.
Hannah was burning her own childhood to hide the paper trail.
"She won't stop with the house," I said. "She knows Julian, and she knows Julian's father investigated the family. She’s going to cleanse the entire town."
"Not while I'm breathing," Julian muttered, checking his magazine. He had four rounds left in his sidearm. "There's an emergency launch tied to the lower pylon. My father kept an offshore skiff moored in the old intake basin."
We descended the iron spiral staircase bolted to the cliff wall. At the bottom, rocking gently in the surging tide, was a twenty-two-foot Boston Whaler with an inboard diesel engine, its hull black and unmarked.
Sitting on the helm console was a leather satchel and a satellite phone.
As our boots hit the wet fiberglass deck, the satellite phone began to chime with a soft, steady chirrup.
May you like
Julian reached for it, but I put my hand over his.
"It’s for me," I said.
